Purple Means Royalty
by gordonMcphersonSays
Summary: After losing a boxing match for the first time, twenty year old Emily Fitch is forcibly dragged into starring in an action movie with Naomi Campbell, an award winning too-cool-for-words girl. Will Naomi be able to tolerate Emily's boyish, Jack the Lad ways, gained from her mate Cook? Can one knockout change Emily's life forever? AU. Shit summary, but try it. 5 reviews to continue.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello! I know I've been gone quite awhile, sorry about that! However, while I was gone, I got loads of inspiration, which is exactly why I'm writing this fic. It's new, never been done before, and fresh. Also, I think I really have bettered my writing, so if it sounds different... yay (At least for me that is.)For those of you reading TEOC, I'm 95% done with the next chapter. Please don't forget to review, I need 5 to continue 3/26/13 A/N: I fixed some MAJOR mistakes in this chapter, so feel free to read it again if you already haven't. :P But if there are some few remaining ones, I'm sorry. ~Gord. ALSO, if you're reading this story would you mind giving my other fic a read? LOVE YOU GUYS!**

I miss the Tylenol bottle again. My fingers make a mad dash for the pills that have flown out of the bottle on the nightstand. I finally grasp one, and slide it onto my tongue, swallowing it dry. The aftermath of last night comes flooding back into my brain.

_Come on, Fitch! You've got this! Tony screams. The crowd goes crazy as I take another blow to the jaw. Blood flies from my swollen lips and scatters onto the mat. I wobble unsteadily as she takes another swing, but I duck._

_"Fuck! Come on, Fitch! Come on!" He shouts more. I throw my gloved hand at her nose as I hear her grunt. "This is ridiculous!" He picks up a pack of stacked papers off the foldable table, throws them to the ground, and stomps them out. I punch her again, catching her off guard. She puts up her fists, and concentrates on unsteady stature. Boom. _

_Her glove connects with my temple. A red copper taste fills my mouth and spittle flies out from between my teeth. As camera flashes go off, the commentator says loudly into the microphone, "And Red Riding Hood is down! We've got a K.O. over here!" The ref counts. Everyone in the crowd stands up and makes noise. My opponent spits on the mat and snarls. The referee, Thomas hustles over to her, and holds up her arm. _

_"Aaaaaand, we've got a winner hereeee! Miz Fitgerald!" The announcer states. More camera flashes go off, and my eyes shut before I hear-_

_"Oh shit! Look what- fucking hell! I'm going to have to deal with this! Would you- Jesus, fucking Christ! Somebody get her up. Quick! God dammit!" He pulls out his cellphone, and starts to call somebody. He shouts angrily into it. I blink slowly, and before I know it, my eyes have shut._

_I'm awake, but I don't open my eyes. I don't have the strength right now. I'm in a hospital bed. I don't need my eyesight to tell, I'm all too familiar with this building's presence. I used to come here a lot, having amateur boxing matches when I was fourteen, and getting the shit knocked out of me. The smell is all too hard to miss. The doctor is examining my head. I can feel little droplets of blood soak into the towel wrapped around my head. "Yeah, she'll be fine. Just a minor head injury," I feel cold, gloved hands prod at my noggin. Not the kind of gloves I'm used to though, they're the plastic, disposable kind. _

"_Girl's gotta tough skull."_

"_When will we be done here?" Tony asks. I can already hear the blank, lets-get-this-over-with tone in his voice. The kind of tone that you can imagine him hurridly tapping his Alden brand penny loafers in, checking his watch over and over again. _

"_Let me disinfect her. Her head will be fine, so will her lip."_

"_Yeah, I know. Hurry up, yeah? I've got places to be, people to fucking deal with."_

"_A busy lad, aren't you?"_

_Tony just looks at the man and checks the time on his phone. I close my eyes once more._

.0.

My phone rings. It's an iPhone 5. Top shit, innit? I tap the answer button. "Hello? Fuck! Worst. Migraine. Ever."

"You know last night's fight, Em? Have you seen what they've put in the bloody news? It's in the fucking tabloids, too!"

"Nah, Tone. It's about fucking eight in the morning."

"Correction, miss, its one in the afternoon."

"Yeah, well. It's a Saturday, alright?" I scratch my head, "What is it?" I jerk my hand back at the soreness of my scalp.

"Turn on your telly. Give it a watch."

"Alright, see you." I hang up. _Dickhead_. I think to myself. I sigh and sink even lower into my bed as I search for the remote. I flick on the television and turn to the nearest news channel. "Shit!" The television is blaring, set to maximum volume. I automatically grab the clicker again and set it on mute. I silently read the subtitles.

_"First time defeated female boxer, MMA fighter, Flyweight gold medal champion twenty year old Little Red Riding Hood, also known as Emily Fitch has been knocked down by twenty-one year old Franchesca Fitzgerald. Broadcast last night on Box Nation, a new British boxing channel, captured Emily Fitch being knocked out for the first time in her four year expanse. _

_"Let's see if Southgate locals have a bit to say about this. _

_'Personally, I knew one of 'em was gonna go down like that. Boxing belongs to the men, yeah?' A scruffy looking bloke notes._

Welsh prick. _Another woman says, 'I think that she shouldn't stop fighting. She's been such a strong head throughout her entire career and I really look up to her.', The camera switches to a few boys, probably about fourteen or fifteen, 'Yeah, she's about done.' One of them says, the other two nod. 'Franks cracked her a bad one, didn't she? Yeah mate, she's done.' The camera switches to a playback._

In full HD, you can see me being punched, square on the right side of my face. Fuck. I really took it, didn't I? Saliva and blood shoot out of my open mouth as I fall onto the mat and the referee counts. I blink rapidly, before eventually shutting my eyes. "Wow," I say to myself. I shut my eyes and rub my sore as fuck forehead. Every side of my head aches. Every inch. Fucking migraines are killing me, and I already know Tony's going to try to make me go out today. After-the-match party or something.

I unlock my phone and call Tony back. It rings three times.

"I saw it. I can't fucking believe this. I've already got enough shit on my plate."

"Well, you better start healing fast. We've got an after-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know, alright?"

"Suit yourself. Now fuck up, or shut up. And by that, I mean get ready for tonight, by 7:30. We're trying to get there at eight. I'll have a limo come swing by and pick you up, drop you off, you'll take a few pictures, make a statement, answer a few questions, shake hands with Franky."

"You sound like a robot."

"I'm your manager. What can I say? Oh yeah, a bunch of actors and models will be there, too. A lot of the top shit fuckers. So come dressed to impress, and we'll have Linda come round at 7:10 to do your makeup. Cheers." He hangs up.

I push back the covers and stretch for a bit. The sun catches my eye and I wince. I walk into the bathroom and examine myself. My hair is a mess, dark strands of raven black flying everywhere. I've just recently dyed my hair from cherry red to pitch black. Although, the press still won't stop calling me Little Red Riding Hood. My attention soon evaporates from my hair to the bandage that my hand is tracing over. Also my busted lip if I forgot to fucking mention. I peel back the bandaid covering my temple, and I see a stamp of blood the size of a five pence coin. My chin is scraped from the mat. I must have bit the dust when I fell down. Luckily my mouthpiece was in, I would've bit off half my tongue with that fall. I smile, examining my teeth. Ever since I started professionally boxing, at 16, none of my teeth have been chipped the slightest.

My elbows are a little bit scraped. My knees are alright. I look a bit roughed up, but it's fine. Nothing I haven't had before. But you already know the media will be raving about it. A busted lip, a head bandage. Its not like I haven't walked outside with a busted lip before, but it's about the fact that I lost that the paparazzi and their cameras will be all over. I turn on the sink and wash my face. I give my porcelain cheek a tug and pull. "I'm still fit as, though." I state as a matter of fact. Shutting off the sink, and leaving the bathroom, I close the door.

.0.

My head is tilted back as the steam from the shower knob rolls out each sizzling drop of water against my pale skin. Lacing shampoo through the roots of my hair, I hear my front door open. On impulse, I draw back my shower curtain and turn off the water. I hear footsteps approaching, and I hide behind a nearby wall. As they draw closer, I steady my hands for an uppercut.

Before I even know what I'm doing, I swing at Linda, (yes, Linda), and in the midst of seconds right before I knock the absolute _bollocks _out of her, she catches my fist. "What the fuck?" I ask her. My brain is just now processing that Linda is not an intruder or some crazed fan, and or paparazzi, and also the fact that I am stark naked. "I was a makeup artist for Scotty Cardle. Threw a hell of a punch while drunk. So it's no big deal, I've handled worse." She's American. I can tell by her accent.

"Sorry," I retract my arm. "But, weren't you supposed to come round at 7.10? It's 6.50. And, how did you get in?"

"I have a key."

"How'd you get it?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Tony Stonem. He said this might happen, but it's not like it's a big deal or anything. Like I said, I've handled worse." She shrugs, while checking me out. I immediately cover myself up with my hands.

"Right. I'm going to go finish what I was doing..." I turn around and walk back into the bathroom. I rub my sore head, which is pulsing with a definite migraine. _I'm definitely not going to be drinking tonight. _After I climb back into it, I finish my shower, dry off, and walk into my bedroom to find Linda in there, sorting through my closet.

"What're you doing?"

"Dressing you up."

"You're only here to do my makeup." I challenge her.

"And then some."

I sit down on the edge of my king sized bed while I watch her sort through her suitcase sized makeup bag. She pulls out a black dress, black tights, and red heels. "That's what I'm supposed to be wearing?" She nods, pulling out a case full of makeup supplies.

"Look, that isn't going to work. I've got one searing headache, and I can't be bothered. I'll give you £1,000 if you fuck off, yeah?" I bargain with her, rubbing my forehead.

"Deal." She says, packing up her suitcase. "Oh, speaking of Tony, he wanted me to give you this." She tosses me a tabloid paper. I set it on my bed.

"Thanks. Contact Tony tomorrow. He'll take care of everything." I listen while she shuts the door.

"Shit." I sigh and lie down on my bed. I rub my sore temple. I know I've been acting as if my knockout never existed, but in the life of Emily Fitch, you've gotta act like shit's alright. Especially in front of the public eye. I take another aspirin off of my nightstand, swallowing it, feeling the dry lump slither down my throat. "Alright, Fitch. Gotta take matters into your own scarred, tiny, glove worn out hands."

I sort through a pile of clothes in my bathroom. I stop and look at the mess. I should probably get a maid or something. I live in a big arse fucking place. It can't look like shit. And again, it can't look like shit to the public eye, either. Good thing I keep my shutters tight. In the pile of the clothes scattered around the obsidian floor, next to the some-kind-of-really-expensive-tree wooden cabinets, which has a grand marble sink, or should I say, sinks attached. Nice, innit? Yeah, I've worked hard for all this. Riches aren't everything, but a nice sink is cool to look at, I guess.

I pick up a gray, waist length trench coat, with black buttons. I lumber toward my walk in closet, and out of all the most expensive looking, really appropriate pieces of clothing, which Tony had sent to me, by the way, I pick out simple, black tights. Shuffling them on, I pull on the tights, while hopping one legged deeper into the closet, I scope out a pair of ratty, white Vans shoes. I button up the coat. My black hair has dried by now, but I don't bother fixing it. _Fuck the makeup, _I think to myself. I pick up my Vans and set them down at the door, and I check the time as well. 7.25 PM. I've got a bit of time, so I leaf through the tabloid. The first thing I see is, _"EMILY FITCH: BOXING CHAMPION LOSING HER GAME?" _

There's a few pictures of me, and a very large one of me getting punched square in the face. _Yeah, that'll look good on my portfolio. _I keep reading. Just more talk about how I'm losing my game, how it might be time for me to drop out. And then a bunch of rumors I rip up the tabloid and walk upstairs towards the balcony. I slide open the crystalline sliding glass door, and look down at the streets. I see the long, sleek, black limousine waiting for me. I jog toward my room and grab my mobile off the charger. Heading back downstairs, I slip on my Vans, open up the door, and quickly lock it before jogging toward the limo.

Orange-headed Alo steps out of the limo, clad in his silly black on-the-job hat, white button down, black suit jacket, black pants, and Converse, not to mention his golden cufflinks, and Men in Black sunglasses, fag in hand. As soon as he sees me approaching, he immediately stands up straight, and gives me a military salute with his right arm bent, his hand sticking out, touching his forehead after taking off his sunglasses with his left hand. He opens up a door for me."Getting lucky tonight, eh, Em?" He asks while getting in the driver's seat. He starts the car, turns on his headlights and starts driving.

"Not with this headache, Alo." I reply, sitting in the seat behind him.

"Yeah, well, I'd be happy to give you a massage, yeah? Or better yet, give that girl Franky a punch for ya."

Alo always was the boy to hit on an older woman. Sure, he's only two years younger than me, but still. He'd lay any girl if it wasn't for his girlfriend Mini, and their one year old baby, Grace. He's cool. A nice driver, and he keeps me company. He's not anyone I'd share my feelings with, though. I'm too tough for that.

"Mate, I think I can handle this one, right? Not to mention I'm as gay as a window." I roll down the window, and reach for his fag that he's got in his left hand, popping off my seatbelt, and reaching over the driver's seat before plopping back down and buckling up.

"That's true. Oi, Em, are all girl boxers lezzer? Reckon you can get me one of those?" I laugh at his question.

"I don't know, Alo, can't really speak for all of us, can I? And if you ever got into an argument, she'd drop your arse fast enough." I pick up the lighter sitting beside me, and set fire to the cigarette held between my left hand's index and middle finger. He chuckles at my comment. "You aren't too dressed up, are you? Tony said he was gonna have some chick come to your house and doll you up."

"I turned her down, gave her £1,000 to bugger off. Not to mention she saw me naked." I take a toke on the cigarette. "Woah! No kidding?" He reaches back for the fag, which he takes a drag on, and passes it back to me.

"Yeah. Didn't seem interested though. Straight girl. American. I almost swung on her, too. She came into my house out of bloody nowhere. Had no idea how she got in. It was okay, though. She said she used to work for Scotty Cardle. No wonder how she caught my punch."

"_Thee _Scotty-fucking-Cardle? No bloody way!" He makes a roundabout turn. Alo rolls down my window so I can get rid of the cigarette's ashes and then rolls it back up.

"Yeah. Besides, I couldn't be arsed to get all dressed up like that. I got knocked out remember?"

"Yep, but you didn't come out with anything too bad. At least the dogs won't be raving over it as much as a, I dunno, a concussion or something."

"Psh! Yeah bloody right. Course they'll be raving over it. It's the matter that I lost, remember?

"Hm. Alright, babe, here's your stop," He says, parking a corner away from my actual location, stepping out of the limo and opening up my door. He shuts it for me, and wraps me up into a hug. Its this thing we do before I show up at something public like this. He always parks a little bit away, so that I won't be bombarded at my own car. The parking, I meant, not the hug.

"Have a good one, champ." He says into my small

"Tell Mini I said hey, yeah?"

"Of course."

"Laters, Ginger." I wave bye to him as he drives off.

I walk towards the entrance of the party. Dozens of paparazzi are surrounding it. Thank God they hadn't noticed the limo yet. _Jesus Christ. _I keep my head down as I walk briskly towards it. I can see the lot of them, with cameras danging from around their necks, flashes ready to strike. One tall man murmurs, "Is that Emily Fitch?"

"Miz Fitch! Miz Fitch!" A swarm of bodies run toward me, microphones and recorders in hand.

"Is it true that you're now a failure?"

"Are you thinking of ending your career? Or possibly your life?"

"Miz Fitch! Is it true you are having an affair with Franky? The woman who beat you down?" One of them grabs at my chest.

I slap their hand away. "Fuck off!"

I walk even faster away from them. At least five other paparazzi's flashes go off, blinding me or a split second. One woman shoves a microphone in front of my mouth. "Do you have any comment on what's happened? Do you resent Franky?"

"No. I don't." I answer, hoping they'll fuck off now.

"Miz Fitch, why aren't you dressed up tonight?"

"Do you have any scars?"

I run even faster. The bouncer at the door stops me as soon as I get to the entrance. "I.D." He tells me. The paparazzi are starting to close in. Tony shows up beside him. "Emily come in."

"Jesus Christ!" I brush myself off. _They're acting like bloody monkeys out there. _

"Sh. There's some important people here. Act nice, alright? And why aren't you dressed appropriately?" He hisses.

"Whatever. I'm going to the bar." I wave him off and examine my surroundings. Classy music is playing, there's a man on the piano, up on stage, with a jazz band. He was right. Actors, actresses, directors, musicians. The furniture looks like it came from the queens house, expensive. There's a chandelier hanging with the prettiest bulbs. All the men are in suits, the women in dresses, their hair done, wearing makeup. Everybody's here. And I'm the only one dressed down. This place is huge. A bit like a mansion. The walls and ceiling are a velvet red, the suave carpet is a dark colour.

Even James Cook is in dressy attire. He's having a conversation with some bald bloke, sporting a goatee, wearing pinstripe suit. As soon as he spots me trying to find the bar, he stops his conversation with the man, mid sentence, and walks off. Baldy seems appalled and frowns at him. James didn't seem so interested anyway. He waves at me and smiles a toothy grin. One thing I hadn't noticed was that he was missing one tooth, in the bottom row.

"Oi, Emsy," He calls over to me.

"Oi, Jamie," I copy him. He picks me up in a hug and ruffles my hair. He walks with to me to get a drink.

"No dress tonight?"

"Nah, mate. Didn't have the time for it." He nods in understanding. "'Nough about me. What happened to your tooth?"

"Oh yeah, that," He slides his tongue over his teeth. "That there was Donnie O'Keefe."

We sit down at the bar, he orders a simple pint, I order a glass of cranberry juice. While he chugs his lager down, I check out what he's wearing. His hair is in a side part, gelled a little bit, with a classic taper cut. He's in an olive green suit jacket, with a white button down, black dress pants, and a pair of black leather loafers. He's also got a clean shave. He's wearing glasses. He sets the glass down on the counter. I look at his arm, which has a Baume Mercier wristwatch strapped on it.

"I missed you, mate," I wrap my arm around his neck. I plant a kiss on his cheek.

"Yeah, yeah. So what was up with you gettin' knocked down by that girl? What's her name? Fran? Oh yeah, Franky."

"I dunno. I don't remember anything, really. Is that all you're having?" I point to his empty glass. He wipes the back of his mouth with his hand. He sniffs. "You're talkin', babe. With what you're havin'."

"Come on," He says, he lifts me up off the stool after I finish the drink, and sets me up on my feet, "Some people are gonna be wanting to talk to you. I spied her here, as well. Franky, I mean. Gotta meet and greet some of the other famous cunts. You know the drill, Ems."

"Yeah, I do." He loops his arm with mine. You can almost hear the paparazzi outside hassling another incoming famous person. Thank God they're not allowed inside. "Look, there's Michael Radner. Let's go talk to him, yeah?" He gestures to him with his hand.

Jamie and I walk up to Michael who is holding a wineglass in one hand while tapping his foot to the beat of the jazz band. "Hey, Michael!" James says in a friendly way.

"Hey, James! Who's this lovely lady here?" He smiles. He's Irish. Tall, brown haired, blue eyed, casual black suit. Jamie shakes Michael's hand. "She's my great friend, Emily Fitch, best mates for life." James says.

"Oh, I think I know you. I saw you on the news this morning." He reaches out for my hand and kisses it.

"Oh yeah, and you were in that new movie, _Nuisance_, right? You're a lovely actor." I flash a smile at him. A fake smile at that.

"Right well, I think we've gotta be goin' now, Michael. See you later, yeah? Take care, mate." We both walk away. James loops his arm with mine again. "Arsehole." He murmurs. I see Tony waving from a corner in the room. "I think Tony wants to talk to me," I tell him.

"Right, go on, girl." He lets me go.

He walks off toward some woman. I start towards Tony, who's looking dazzling himself. He's talking to a girl, she's got peroxide blonde hair, medium length. She has pale skin, long legs, and she's wearing the skinniest, tightest black pants, black high heels, and a white lace top, with diamond earrings. When he sees me approaching, he tells her something like 'hold on,' because when he walks away she doesn't seem surprised.

"Emily, this is somebody I want you to meet, her name's Naomi Campbell, three time BAFTA award winner, director, actress, producer, and occasional model."

"So? What's she got to do with me?"

"You're going to be starring in a movie with her."

"What about boxing?" I ask him, giving him an odd look. I don't quite fancy where he's going with this.

"You're laying off the boxing for a bit," He says, as if its casual. My face contorts into a look of anger. "Everybody thinks you're losing your spunk? Well, you're gonna stop boxing for a while. Do something you haven't done before. So you're going to star in a movie with Naomi Campbell," he pokes me in the chest with a deviant smile, "and you're going to make best buds with her. It'll give something else the hounds to report about. It'll also give time for this whole Franchesca thing to blow out."

"What the fuck? Why would you just do that? Without my consent? I haven't fucking signed anything!" I shout. He looks around hastily, checking to see if anyone has heard my profanity. "Emily, be quiet! Lower your voice." I do as he says but with a growl laced within my words.

"You shouldn't be surprised. You almost fucked over your whole appearance coming out in _that," _He snarls, "You're doing this movie, Fitch. It's for the good of the both of us. If you want to represent yourself well, you'll do this. I'd thought that you and Naomi could get together. See, she's going to be cast as a lead role in a new movie, _912: Deathcall_, which has actually got some action in it. They needed a female role, so I figured you'll be happy to do that job."

"How long am I doing this?" I touch my bandage. He knows I'm pissed off. He smirks at me.

"However long it takes. We need to get everything settled. You'll meet her and some more important men and women on Sunday, at 6.45 AM sharp. You'll be signing papers, particularly a contract. And a lot of more stupid shit like that."

"Why can't I just meet her now?" I want to get it done and over with, but at the same time I just want to piss Tony off.

"On Sunday, Emily." He walks away. The rest of the night is a blur. When the time comes, I shake hands with Franky, take pictures with her, I make a commentary speech about what happened at the match and so on, and how my loss to her does not in any challenge our "friendship." I could actually care less about what's happened, I just want some bloody sleep. Soon after, Tony drops me off at home, where I finally do succumb to slumber.

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! That was the first chapter, and sorry for any mistakes. I'm typing on a new computer so its kind of different, not to mention I'm using a whole new different word document program that isn't Microsoft Word like I'm used to. Please leave a review, and tell me what you think! Also, if you're confused about what Emily was wearing or what Cook's haircut looked like, here are the links to what they look like. I also hope this wasn't too shabby, as I went back to proofread, which, hopefully I did a good job doing, and I put in some major parts and removed some.**

**Emily's outfit: +/g+oo.+gl/o+Dg5+H (remove the plus signs)**

**Cook's haircut: +/g+oo+.gl/+9a1+8k (remove the plus signs) If the links don't work, just tell me and I'll PM you the actual links. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, follows, favorites, and to the people that went and checked out my other story, which you should probably do to if you haven't already because that would make me want to write the next chapter extra loooong. And sorry about not updating that one yet, I'm still putting together little bits and pieces of the chapter that I've written together. Please, please, please, review, it means the world to me, even if its an anonymous review, I really don't care as long as you do it. You know what'd be even better than reviewing? Telling me what you like/want to see. It makes me happy and it makes me want to write longer chapters for this fic, too. Oh, if anyone hasn't, go read The Bengal Tiger. Just do it. Go, go, go! Not to mention, this chapter's kind of long. 4,000 words. There are a few Skins quotes in this chapter, and yes, I used an Arcia quote on Emily, shame on me. Anyway, please read and review. Sorry for any mistakes. Gordon x (Update, a lot of the major mistakes have been eliminated, feel free to read and not cringe now!)**

.0.

"Wake up, fucker!" James screams into my ear. I grab my pillow and smother my ears with it. Out of the crack of my eye, I see him grab the curtains and yank them open. He strides over to the sliding glass door leading to the balcony and yanks those doors open too, letting in the scent of grass, and the stupid chirping of birds into my flat. I shut them tight, scowling.

"Wakey, wakey!" He shouts again. He climbs onto my bed and starts to jump up and down. "Cook, if you'd like to keep your manhood, you'd stop doing what you're fucking doing." I growl at him, pillow still tightly resting over my head. "Nonsense, babe. I've got so much dough I could pay for a new one, anyhow." He keeps jumping up and down.

"I swear to fucking God, James. I'm going to give you a sucker punch to the bollocks." I throw the pillow over my head, sitting upright. I rub at my eyeballs aggressively, and sighing harshly. He picks me up by the arms and tosses over his back, carrying me like a sack of potatos. I beat on his back. He jumps down from the bed, and runs downstairs, beating on his chest with one hand like a lowland gorilla. He yells, "Score for Jamiekins, zero points for Shithead Emily!" He throws me down on the leather two piece couch in the living room. I give him a rustic smile.

"Is there a specific reason why my alarm clock didn't wake up, and you did instead?"

"Tony sent me. Though, you'd probably already guessed." He says, flashing my a cheesy grin. I remember how his bottom row tooth had been knocked out of his gums. Turns out his mouthpiece didn't do much for him. Although, Donnie O'Keefe was a tough shot. He takes a spliff out of a cigarette packet and sparks it from out of his from pocket. He tosses it onto the table, not before strolling into the kitchen. I close my eyes again lazily. I've been doing loads of eyeclosing these past few days. I deserve it. I'm knackered. And it's 4.45 AM. I drag a pale palm down my face.

I glance up at Cook who's in the kitchen fixing up his own idea of breakfast. A lager, a shot of whiskey, one lime slice, and a half glass of water. He walks over to the backdoor, punching in the passcode and slinging it open. He heads back over to the kitchen and collects his "breakfast", so to speak, and carries it outside. He sets it on the tables outside. So my flat isn't really a flat, it's a house. A two story one with a big backyard. And a balcony. I've got those little tables outside, you know, those kind that the fancy top shit restaurants have? With the little martini umbrella shade thingies. Yeah, them ones. He sets the drinks down on one of those tables.

He turns back to face me. "Over here, Emilio." He says, patting one of the chairs next to him. I get up and yawn. I stretch my arms above my head. The house is barely lit up with the dark skies that are British weather at five in the morning. I walk over to him, sluggishly, before sliding the door closed. I don't bother to put on any shoes. I sit down wearily while he squeezes the lime over his mouth, onto his tongue. He doesn't even wince. He's had worse stings, James has. He sucks on the lime.

"Better than fucking marmalade on toast, Ems. Want some?" He asks me, showing the fruit at me. I grimace and shake my head. "Suit yourself then." He slurps on it. He downs the lager and then moves onto the whiskey shot. As he throws his head back he stills for a few seconds. Probably enjoying the high of the shot, and the lager pooling into his brain. He sniffs.

I take the time to look over him. His dark brown hair is still how it was yesterday night, just messily combed, or not even combed at all. He's wearing a denim jacket, buttoned open, with a white fitted t-shirt underneath, with caramel brown khaki pants, and black and white Nike shoes. It's not long before he grabs the glass of water and knocks it back like another shot, and slams it back onto the table.

"Good breakfast, innit?" I smirk at him.

"Wannit, you mean, babe? Past tense, yeah?"

"Fuck off." I reachover from across the table and poke him in the cheek.

"Hungry?" He asks. "I could whip you somat up in the kitchen. How about a tomato and pickle sandwich?"

"As tasty as that sounds," I say, rather huskily, "It also sounds shit." I add.

"Right, well, you gonna get in the shower anytime soon? London's two hours away, yeah? You got yourself a six minute shower."

"Shit!" I run upstairs, stripping off all my clothes in record time, dashing into the shower, and turning on the water. I can hear James laughing as he storms up the stairs, waiting in front of the bathroom door, looking at his iPhone's timer. I rush the bodywash over my body, brush my teeth in the shower, and then I hurriedly hop out. I pull the towel over my body, drying myself off so fast that I'm probably bruising myself.

I rub lotion all over my body, opening up the door where James is and telling him to get me some knickers and a bra. He swings open the door and tosses it at me. I slip them on and run over to my bed, which has an outfit my manager probably picked out for me laid out. I pull on the white, silk tank top, the skinny as fuck light wash jeans, the golden cross necklace, black flip flops, and the purple zip-up hoodie. I pull open the door and see James leaning against the door, doing something with his phone. I make sure I've got everything. Mobile? Check. Wallet? Check. All ready to fuck off.

He glances up when I emerge. "Only took nine minutes. Ready? Looking top shit by the way, Ems." I nod at him, jogging down the stairs. "We taking your car or what?" I ask him. He hums a reply. "I've got a meet in old London, anyhow." He says, following me down the stairs. We dash out of the front door. James unlocks his car doors with a "beep" noise. He owns a 2012 Mercedes-Benz E 63 AMG. Nice car for a bloke like him. I slide in on the right side, the passenger seat. He starts up the car and we take off.

"You didn't have nothin' in the house, Em. We'll stop somewhere 'fore we get there, yeah? Pick up some doughnut holes and coffee."

"Right." I say. Sleep's grip has tightened on my body. I recline my seat back, before I drift off.

"Yeah, can I have one of them biscuit things?" James says, leaning in toward the intercom. "And fifteen of those cake pops, a cinnamon roll, a caramel apple cider, a bacon sandwich, and a strawberry smoothie." He shouts, effectively waking me up.

"Your total is £18.47." A boy's voice, no older than seventeen sounds out. Cook drives up to the next window. "You ordered a chocolate chip biscuit, fifteen cake pops, a cinnamon roll, a caramel apple cider, a baco nsandwich, and a strawberry smoothie, correct?" The brown skinned, black haired, lanky boy asks. "Yep." James replies. The boy looks up from the two bags he was examining and glances at James. His eyes go wide. I'm all too familiar with this look. "Holy bollocking shit cakes!" He exclaims. James smirks.

"You're James Cook Jr! And you're Emily Fitch!" He points at the two of us. Jamie smiles at me. "Calm your tits, mate. You'll get an autograph. Or even better," he glances back at me, sporting a toothy smile, "Hand over your mobile, yeah? You'll get a picture, as well."

"Holy shit!" The boy hops up and down. "My name's Anwar! Anwar fucking Kharral! I knew this day would come!" He says, his skinny limbs flying all over the place. James reaches for the bags on the counter and sits them next to me. He opens up one of them and takes out a napkin. He signs, _To the best Starbucks employee,_ before stopping and asking, "How do you spell Anwar, mate?" Anwar spells his first and last name out for him. Look outside, rolling down my window. There's two, three cars waiting for us to hurry up. One bloke sees me poking my head out and honks his horn. I flash him a small middle finger, before giving him a smile as well. James finally finishes scrawling out his little handwriting, he passes the napkin to me. I take the pen that the excited boy had thrown at James previously, and use it to write _Emily Fitch was here :)_. I pass the napkin back to him."Thanks, loads!" He says after he hands over his mobile, some kind of Android, and uses the front camera setting to take a picture of all three of us.

"No problem, mate." James adds, before handing over a twenty pounder, and telling him to keep the change.

We drive off. "How long you been awake?" He asks, looking at me for a split second. "Dunno." I raise my arms over my head. "When are you dropping me off?"

"Erm..." He mumbles, fiddling with the volume of the radio. "Right now." He finally says.

"Siri, babe." He says into his iPhone.

"Yes, James?" She asks.

"Aw, perk up a bit, sugar. You know I like it when you sound chirpy." He smirks at his phone in hand and glances at me. I smirk back.

He finally asks her for directions, and we head to Naomi Campbell's big bad building. Although, I suppose it isn't quite hers... "Fucking hell! The fuck you think you're doin', mate?" James shouts and honks his horn. He gets out of the car and slams the door shut, whipping off his James Bond sunglasses. I wake up again, it's been at least 30 minutes. He comes over to my side and opens up the door for me. He unbuckles my seat belt for me, and lends a hand to help me up out of the leaned back seat. He throws his arm around me and works as a crutch for me. "Still a bit tired, yeah?" I nod. He kisses me on the cheek. I hadn't realized where we were at. A dark car park. One of them garage ones. We take the lift up to the building.

We pace a few aisles and things. "Right there," he points, "One of the fittest to walk the planet."

"What? Nah, mate. Not even fucking close. I'd shoo her away with a fucking stick, yeah? Look at her. I mean, if I'd known you were into grannies, I could've matched you up with one of my cougar groupies."

"Oi!" He protests.

"Here we are, then."

"Right so, that's me," I nod.

Cook removes the glasses off his forehead and slides them back down over his eyes once we've reached our stop on the lift. We stand before a very, very, very large glass door. Actually, the whole fucking twenty million stories are of glass. You can see everyone's little cubicle/office, whatever the fucking bollocks you wanna call it. We stop in front of the huge panel doors. James kisses me on the cheek and kneels down to look at me in the eye. "What, you proposing now?" I ask him, in a very husky I've-just-woken-up-and-I-feel-a-bit-shit-to-be-hon est tone. "Wish I could, girl." He flicks the metallic silver ring on my index finer and matches mine with his, giving them both a subtle bump. He stands up to look at me. Concurrently, we repeat the words we've been saying for a long bloody time. "Clobber the twats, leg over the lasses!" We say together in sync, while bumping our ringed fists. He pulls me into a hug. "I love you." He says. I tell him that I know. Shame, right? Acting as if I won't see him for ages to come.

"Laters, lezza." He shouts, before heading back off into the elevator. I push open the big glass door. I'm met with a peppermint smell of a receptionists office. "Can I help you with something?" The voice asks, filling out various forms with a dark ink pen, sitting behind her desk, typing away with another hand. "Yeah, I'm Emily Fitch. I'm here to see -"

"Right. Three aisles down, take one left, one right, and another left. There'll be an office with Gregory McGuinness' name on it. "

"Okay..." I trail off, heading in what I hope is the right direction. My flip flops make an eerie clapping sound up and down the hallways as I try to find the correct office. The repetitive grey carpeting, white walls, and tree brown doors are doing no help for me. Finally, after five minutes of aimless waling round, I find it. Took bloody ages, but I've made it. "Yes, come on in." A man says, with dark brushed back hair, glasses, and a short height. He is wearing a white button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and navy blue slacks. He readjusts his glasses before taking a seat at a mahogany round table. He motions for me to sit. Quite the hectic place this is. I examine it with my eyes. I'm met with a room quite more fucking larger than I expected. In the room, there are several large windows, but with sun streaming through. There are people bustling about, trying to rush into other rooms occupied inside this room. Is this fucking Inception or what?

"My manager Tony Stonem sent me here. I'm supposed to sign some papers and a contract. I'm here to see Naomi Campbell?" I offer the man while he gives me a confused look.

He pushes his glasses further up his nose. "What movie?" He quizzes me.

"I forgot the name. It's got action though," I lean in a bit closer to him. He gives me a questioningly look.

"Look, Mate, I'm the real deal. You wouldn't have let me in here if I weren't, right? I just want to get this over with. It's way too bloody early for my likin', yeah?"

He gives a thin smile. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Fitch." He shakes my hand. "Come." He leads. I stand up and follow him through a path of different doors inside the office. He knocks on the door and opens it up to another large room, which looks like it might host conferences or meetings. All the members sitting at the table look up at us. Particularly me. I feel so out of place when stared down at by all of these dark-haired business cunts. But one of them isn't the same. That peroxide blonde.

"Emily Fitch. Boxer." He says to everyone in the room. "Here to sign some papers, as well as a contract and then some."

Murmurs like "right" and "yes" go out in the room. I make my way in, flip flops clapping once again as I take a spot. The only empty chair in the room is right by Naomi Campbell and no other. I push out my chair, looking a bit surprised when I found out they roll. Everyone's eyes are still on me as I move about the room, even after the door's been shut.

"If anyone wants to stop fucking staring at me, that'd be topsy-doody, yeah?" I mutter, while leaning back in the chair, and setting my feet up on the table. I glance around at them all. "Like the bloke before me just said, I'm here to sign some papers? Contracts? Whatever it is you want out of me." I offer, looking at everyone again. N one speaks. "Listen, this is a fucking waste of my time. I've got shit to do, yeah? Cuz I'll have Tony come pick me up. Fuck's sakes, its way too bloody early for all this." I begin to stand up out of my chair and exit.

"Emily Fitch. Nice to meet you. My name is David. David Blood. I would stand up to shake your hand but I am brought back to boundaries by this table." He smiles at me. I look him in the eye while he talks. I take my seat back slowly. "I'm sorry for the consistent silences, Emily." He apologizes.

"Yeah." I nod at him. I study the man. He's tall, lanky, rosy cheeked and curly haired. His hair is of a dark brown walnut colour, and his skin a whit porcelain. He's wearing a white collared long sleeve shirt, and black slacks. I can't make out his shoes. The prick is sitting with one leg across the other. A bit like a girl. I suddenly realize all the men sitting at the table aren't not looking at me, they're silently doing their own tasks with their stupid arsewipe calculators and pens and important papers. Naomi had got up and left the room long ago, looking bored. It was just Blood and I.

"Connoway," he shouts in a calm manner, like he's used to doing. "Yes?" A dark, choppy haired young man's head shoots up. He slides his calculator and paper's away from his hands and neatly folds them to his chest. "Would you please fetch the folder F from floor 12B?"

"Right so." The man stands up. His black and white suit reminds me of a penguin as he briskly runs for the folder. He's back in about three minutes, but while he's gone, Blood and I talk. "So," he starts, "Mister Connoway is going to go grab some papers for you to sign. He'll be back in a jiffy. I should explain a lot to you. This," he starts, as he gets up out of his chair and trails around the extremely large room, "is Clayworth Incorporation. We are one of the most important movie organizations in the world." He cracks his knuckles. "We know you're here for the movie you shall be starring is with Miss Campbell. And we are delighted to have you on campus." He smiles tightly. I raise an eyebrow at him.

Clayworth comes back into the room looking pink-faced and sets the folder onto the long table, in where Blood was sitting. "Thank you, Berry." Blood says to him, while still looking at me. "Oh, it's Clayworth." The man corrects. "Don't. Backtalk me."

"Right." Clayworth nods, a fearful expression grazing his face.

"As I was saying," Blood continues, "In this folder," he picks it up, and skims over the contents inside, "Is your contract, some forms you'll have to fill out, and a few other _legal _things you'll want to read."

"Yeah, that's great. Can I go now?"

"Of course." He smiles at me again. "I'll just pass you over these papers, and I'll let you be on your way?" He slides the folder across the table toward me, and with a pen.

"Hasn't Tony gotta be present for, erm, this?" I lean back a bit more in the gray, leather chair.

"It was my understanding that you'd be signing them with or without Mister Stonem."

"Cuntish prick you are." I mutter to myself as I sloppy sign all two million papers.

.0.

It's a little bit in the afternoon. I'm sprawled out on the couch, no longer freezing my tits off, because the heaters on full blast. My mobile starts to ring by my bedside. I turn down the seventy inch TV. Of course they exist. I can't watch footy without a screen as nearly as big can I?

"Alright?" I answer.

"You signed all the contracts. Great. I'm arranging something between you and Naomi. A chance for you two to finally talk."

"Have I ever told you how cool it is that you just spring shit out on me?"

"Sarcasm won't get you anywhere."

"Punching the shit out of people will. How about setting up another match? I'm hardheaded. Literally." I ask him, referring to my knockout.

"Yeah," he stretches out the word, "no. That can't happen. Not yet, at least. Just do this movie. We've been over this."

"Can't be anything today," I switch to another subject, "Jamie's over at mine."

There's a crackle over on his line. "Like I said, I'm arranging something. When it's settled, I'll give you a ring." He hangs up.

"Bananas!" James screams from upstairs in the guest room.

"What's going on up there, James?" I shout, breaking out in a grin.

"Red! Come here! Fucking now!" He screams back.

I throw the cover back from the couch and bound up the stairs, swinging open the door to his room. "What is it?" I ask him, flopping down on the bed. He's leaning back against the headboard, looking up at the telly screen with pure triumph. "Barry!" He shouts jumping up and down on the bed. Its a match between him and Davie Nicholls. "Look at it!" He says, sitting when he jumps back down. He slings an arm around my neck. "I'm lookin' at it," I push him. "What is it?" I say, turning back to look at the screen. "Did you not just see that?" He grabs the remote and rewinds it.

"Full fucking knockout, there." He says pointing to himself slugging Davie.

"Woah, you fucked him up one." I say, hugging James closer.

"Good and proper, babe."

"So, give me the lowdown on what happened earlier?" James says, lowering the volume on the television.

"I met this bloke named David Blood, he was a fucking weirdo to be honest. And the building had these long arse aisles; receptionist told me where to go and after getting lost I finally found my way-"

"Long story short, princess?" James asks, lighting up his fag.

"Fuck you," I laugh, "it was just fucking odd. I sat next to Naomi in this conference room. Didn't say anything to me, just left after a few moments. And everyone was weirdin' me. They were staring for at least twenty seconds."

"Mmm. Weirdal." He nods, cigarette in mouth.

My phone beeps, a familiar noise that only happens when I get a text. "Check your mobile, darlin'." He nudges me with his right shoulder, leaning back on his hands.

"Don't you have things to do? You, you can still box, you should be busy. I haven't got shit to do till tomorrow." I poke him in his chest and reaching for my mobile, sticking out in my shorts.

"'Course I'm busy. Actually, I need to jet right now." He says, looking at his mobile.

"Okay. What are you doing?" I ask him, glancing at his face. He climbs off the bed while swiping and tapping at the screen of his phone.

"Photoshoot apparently." He slides on his denim jacket. He grabs the stair railing and climbs down them fast. I walk him down to his car. "And a phone change. I guess I'm switchin' from a Blackberry to a Samsung Galaxy SIII. What the fuck is that?" He asks me when we reach the door.

"A phone, arsehole. Didn't you have an iPhone early this morning? What happened to it?" I ask him.

"That's what the meeting in London was about. Second phone this week."

"That's shit. They made you drive all they way to London for a new phone?"

"Yep," he says, rummaging around in his pockets for his car keys.

"Cool. Now get to fuck, mate." I open up the door.

"Love ya, babe." He grabs me by the ears and pulls me in for a hug, I spear him in the stomach with my head and push him away. "Ah, you love me." He teases.

I watch him get into his car before I shut the door. My mobile goes off. I go back up the stairs to grab it. "Yeah?" I answer, narrowly missing the call.

"Don't fucking yeah me, yeah?" Tony says angrily. "What took you so long to answer?"

"Get off my tits. What is it that you want?"

"I've just arranged for you and Naomi to go out for tea." I rub my forehead and sigh and then ask him when this will be.

"Tomorrow, 10 AM, Emily. Sharp."

"Fine." I hang up.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello. I know you haven't heard from me in a while, so here's a new chapter. A very nice someone PM'ed me and said she'd like to know more about some of the characters' background and that kind of stuff, so I plopped a lot of that in here, so that's basically what this chapter is about. With a new character from the third generation, too. Also, TRIGGER: This chapter contains domestic abuse so be aware of that. Also, there will be a part two to this chapter. And Tony's reasons for Emily so urgently wanting her to go into the film business shall be explained. Please review and tell me how it is, I appreciate any kind, positive or negative. And without further ado, this chapter will be dedicated to that someone who gave me a lot of feedback. You know who you are! Thanks! **

Robert Fitch.

Emily had always been known as weak. In her house a monster lived. At first, his deep voice laced with his thick Scottish accent humming songs was comforting. Later, it meant danger. He used to mean the world to her until he got out of control. She wasn't daddy's little girl anymore, but rather his punching bag. Rob Fitch loved his kids with his heart and soul and thought he would never lay a finger on them. It was 1987 when he had stumbled through the dark city streets of Glasgow.

He knew he smelt of whiskey and fags, but it didn't bother him. He wiped his noise, afraid anyone might see the little white specks hiding in his nose hairs. Cocaine, it was new to him; he had only done it once. But it certainly wouldn't be his last. He was eighteen years old. He didn't give a fuck. His hair, clipped short, a lighter brown in the moon's stare, along with his blue and red oversized hoodie, dark jeans and expensive trainers showed he was rebellious. The scowl set on his face proved it. He kept his head down as he walked through the slick, wet streets on a dark and cold night.

He unknowingly bumped into another person. He looked up at her. Her eyes. A blue he'd never seen before. They were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

He hid in an alleyway and watched her walk away. There was something to her. He knew he had to have her.

A few days later, he had learned her name was Jenna. She's a dental assistant. He followed her into where she worked, but not too much so that she knew he was. He had stared at her from afar. _Jenna_. He licked his lips unconsciously and scratched at his stubble. He'd get her. He'd get her soon.

"Oops!" He bumped into her again. "Sorry," he apologized, kneeling down to grab her books off of the pavement. "I didn't mean to." He scratches his head. "Oh, it's quite alright, I-" She kneels down to grab them as well, picking up some of the papers that have spilled out of her bag.

"Here you go." He looks up into her eyes as he hands her back her belongings. Their fingertips touch, and his heart pounds in his chest. They lock eyes for a moment. "My name's Robert. Robert Fitch." He smiles stupidly at the paper she had dropped. They were quotes, scribbled in cursive in messy dark ink. "Shakespeare, eh?"

They hit it off. They had exchanged home phone numbers. They had even got to talking one day. He had seen her again at a park and started chatting with her. There was even a brief discussion on Shakespeare. They had been talking for so long, it was nearly dark, the afternoon they had started conversing in was long gone. "Would you like to me to walk you home?" He offered. "A lady such as yourself shouldn't be out alone."

She grins, with all of her white teeth showing. "Absolutely, Rob."

They have been talking for a little over a week now. He knows a lot about her. She's seventeen. She wants to become a dentist. She says she's not really a dental assistant, but more of an apprentice. She sits in the office all day after college and watches over the other dentists. She's also said she has permission to be in there because her father is good friends with the owner. She says it's fun, learning, and that she can't wait for university so she can study more dentistry. He knows her favourite colour, her pet peeves, what kind of music she likes. Anything she'll tell him. They're both in college.

It's been a few weeks he's known her. He's finally met her parents, specifically her father. He said he's glad his daughter has been enjoying the company of another bloke.

They've known each other months now. In fact, Rob is contemplating asking her out. But he never acts on his thoughts.

Two years into their friendship, they're always calling each other, going out, having fun. She knows almost everything about him. Almost everything but his drug use.

Two more years later, the both of them are twenty-two. Rob finally gathers up the courage to ask her out one night while she's studying. She says yes, and October 29th, 1991, Jenna finds out she's pregnant.

June 8th, 1992, Emily and Katherine Fitch are born. Jenna and Rob's parents have never been more proud. And neither has Rob. He cries at the sight of his bare children, pink with rage, as they throw back their crying heads in the doctor's and nurse's arms. As soon as they had been born, he had sworn to himself he would never drink, or do drugs again.

By the time he breaks his promise to himself, his two daughters are already three feet tall, with flowing brown hair and sparkling cocoa eyes, always wide with surprise. Jenna and he have had an argument while the girls were asleep and sound in their own rooms, lullaby music tinkling in the background. He was quick to lose his temper. He hadn't once raised his voice at Jenna; even throughout his withdraws, after the pain of secretively throwing up in bins while at work and hiding it. But today, he couldn't handle it.

It was only then that with the scruffiness of his beard and the redness of his eyes that she knew something was wrong. Then he left.

It was only once. The needle in his vein gave him a whole new outlook on life. The bottle of Jack in his other hand, tipping the glass down his throat, it added even more to the high. He was done for right now. After all, it was only once, wasn't it?

Then it became a lot.

Emily had always remembered her father as brave. She loved him with all her heart. Her sister wasn't there. Hell, she didn't even know her name. All she knew was that they had some kind of stunning relation. Or so she'd been told. She had been sent off to live with some family member. Brave, but also scary. Despite the coldness in England, she had plenty of long-sleeved shirts. Even in the blistering heat, which wasn't very often but did happen, she would wear those, too. And it was the perfect cover up. The long bruise on her arm from the night before, and the morning let her know she could never trust anyone.

A bed time story and a bruise was the routine. He had two other sides to him. Jenna knew, but she couldn't do anything. The man she fell in love with was not the same one who slept in her bed. Who kissed Emily's elbow when she had gotten a "scrapey-wapey" at just one year old.

Then was it when she found him going through the medicine cabinet searching for something he could take quickly that she had known it had gotten worse; that she should get him some help. It took ten long years for her to realize. Of course it didn't really take her _that _long to find out. She had just ignored it. Pushed it to the side. Emily knew something was wrong with her daddy when she saw him in the medicine cabinet swallowing everything he could find, along with the grownup juice.

At thirteen, she had had enough. The beatings, the bruises, the scars. Everything. It was too much. Why couldn't she wear short-sleeves like everyone else? She didn't mind not being able to wear skirts. She wasn't into that. But she still hadn't done anything about it.

At fourteen, a year later, she had done it. She had stood up for herself. Another boy, Craig Cowden had teased her. So she beat the shit out of him. She fucked him up good. And when she got suspended for five days, she didn't care, even when she found out he had to be admitted to the hospital; but her father was outraged. He slapped her. So she gathered up the courage like she did with Craig and gave him one square in the face. Him being six feet and her five feet three didn't really seem fair, but boy was she happy when she saw the blood coming out of his nose. Her mother pretended like it never happened. Like she had with everything.

A year later, she'd finally asked. "What're you doin' here? You're barely five feet. What do you want, girl?"

"I want to fight." She said head down.

He laughs and bends over, wiping a tear from his eye. He's laughing so hard, she thinks his throat will explode. The other boys are laughing as well. "Look here," He starts, "You can't. You're a girl. Not to mention you're a dwarf. And even if we would let ya, there ain't no other girls out here to fight. Now are there?" A blonde haired boy jogs up to the other and whispers something in his ear. He raises his eyebrow and shrugs. "Nevermind. You're in."

Crack. He's down. Five inches taller than her, he gets the shit knocked outta him. All the boys start running toward her, cheering and waving and screaming. "Barry!" One boy in particular calls out, with grey-blue eyes of stone, and with the shaggiest, lopsided haircut she's ever seen.

"My name's James. But you can call me Jamie." He says to her one day while they're on the swing set. And from those words on, they've been best friends since. James' compassion, companionship, humour and livelihood was enough for her. His loyalty and how he cheered her on at all the rest of her backyard matches made her want to hug him forever.

They became closer than ever. She had never really been over to his and him neither to hers. They kept it safe, at different locations. "You know," He started to say one day, while they were lying in the grass; "I reckon that you could be professional one day."

"Me?" She started to sit up. "How?" She rubbed the busted lip she had received a few days ago. "You know, do some _real_ fighting."

"Isn't that what I've been doing? Have you seen my mouth?" She says, pointing at her lip.

"Yeah, I get that, but like, try to get noticed." He looks at her, scratching his chin.

"Now are you going to tell me you've got a great cousin who lives in York who knows 50 Cent who can get me into 'the business'?" She asked, making air quotes with her fingers.

He chuckles. "Nah, babe. I'll show ya later tonight, yeah?" She nods, and nuzzles her head into the crook of his shoulder.

They went to some bloke's dodgy basement that had a makeshift ring made out of several blankets tosses on a floor with some padding underneath and four cones around each point. The lighting was low and dim, with the occasional lights flickering. The music was startlingly loud and very few voices could be heard except for the occasional shouting of drunken boys and girls, and the sound was definitely wasted yelling.

Scattered across the floor were several beer bottles and cheap champagne. Emily never wore gloves, but her opponent it seemed, did. She was a taller girl, much older with a smart mouth and an eyebrow piercing; such a stupid thing to wear during a fight. She took her long black hair up in her hands and pulled it back. A few minutes later, that same girl was laid out on the floor. Emily spat onto the floor, and took off her gloves; wringing her sore hands. It went silent. She could see James standing by a trashy looking table with a bottle of presumably something alcoholic clutched in his hand, his knuckles white. "Kill the fucking music!" A tall boy said with brown-orange hair, cut neatly, but with a bit of badarsery. He was dressed neatly, weird attire for a scummy party like this. His arm was stretched out in the distance. He signaled to someone else in the dimly lit house by nodding his head upward; a signal to que the lights, as well.

Emily stood there breathing deeply, wondering what was going to come, not out of fear, of course, but out of the boy whom everyone seemed to stop and stare at, dare not say a word because of his superiority over everyone else in the room. The boy is a little tall, at least five feet eight. He lets his hand fall neatly over his thigh. He stares at her. He has freckles dotted around his face, tightly pursed pink lips. He is wearing leather loafers, a burgundy blazer and a green dress shirt, and a very expensive looking silver wristwatch on one wrist. He tilts his head to one side while Emily shifts a little bit uneasily. He starts to walk toward her slowly. She can see her shaggy headed friend behind the mysterious boy squinting his eyes. "Luke," a male voice calls out. He puts his palm up in the air, stopping abruptly, a sign for the person to just, well, not.

Luke, the bloke, smiles, stepping closer to Emily. Hushed whispers ring out in the room. "My name's Luke." He says to her, dropping his height a little bit so that they are eye to eye. She glances up toward Cook, who's not anywhere to be found, but her side. "What's up, Luke?" Cook asks, clenching his jaw. He stands up now, acknowledging his presence, eying him. He turns his attention back toward Emily, continuing where he left off. "I'd like a word with you." He says, grabbing her hand, leading her out to the back of the unknown person's house. "What do you want?" She asks him. He only shushes her and leads her to a small worn out swing set that is surprisingly, in whoever's backyard where they both sit. Emily rubs her hands up and down her arms, shivering from the cold. He takes off his blazer and wraps it around her. She raises her brows at him. He shrugs. "I like women like you. The ones that have fight in them. I could use a girl like you," he starts off. "What do you mean?" She asks, confused, starting her question off like the last one.

"It's good to let anger out on others. Especially when they've fucked you over. And there's definitely have got to be a reason why you can fight so well," he looks at her, stubbing his cigarette ash onto the ground. "So tell me. Who's fucked you over?"

A week later.

"Emily?" Jenna beckons calmly. She doesn't even bother to reply to her mother. She hates her. Why does she deserve a response after all the pain she's endured in this house?"

"Where's Dad?" She asks, using her question as a rebuttal.

"Who's this boy you've been seeing?" Jenna calls from the entrance to her room door.

"I've told you. Jamie and I aren't dating." She says, putting emphasis on her irritation.

"I'm not talking about him, love. I mean the one I've been hearing about." She says gently.

"Fuck off," she spits out, putting her hair up in a ponytail. "I have shit to do." She pushes past her mother.

She opens up the front door before slamming it hard and walking away. She pulls out her new cell phone that her mum had just bought for her under guilt. "Hey," she says huskily into the phone. "I miss you." He sighs into the phone. "Ready to go ape shit tonight?" He can hear her smile through the phone. She tells him he already knows she is.

They punch blokes in the face, smash cars, and Luke almost rips a boy's head off for nearly taking off her's. Their clothes are soiled and bloody. He kisses her on the cheek while on their way to clean themselves off in a stolen car. They're living the life. He has his boys sitting in the backseat, just in case they need to clear some things up while on their way. He drops himself and Emily off to his flat.

The next day, they do the same thing again. Luke pawns off some drugs at a worn out pub, in a secret room that he calls "the Back", and finds trouble soon, as well. They use cue sticks to smash over the enemy's heads, and glass alcohol bottles. They use their fists, their teeth, their arms, legs, and knees. After the fight Emily's name is practically Adrenaline. They run screaming to their cars, fighting off as many bastards as they can. Nonetheless, clothes will be torn. He grabs her and shakes her, excitedness flowing through her veins. "Where you from, killer? Where you from? Fuck everyone, yeah? Except me!"

"Fuck everyone!" She agrees. _But James _she thinks in her head, but she doesn't dare say it out loud.

He grabs Emily by the hand and pulls her into a bloody, busted lipped kiss.

She pulls back and rests her forehead on his, breathing deeply. Behind Luke, a man with a club comes up behind him, a failed attempt at striking him down, as one of the freckled boys' henchmen punches him right in the mouth.

Now they run.

Three weeks later.

"Why haven't you been coming round?" James asks her, stubbing out some of his cigarette ash on top of the arm rest of the bench.

"Who says I haven't?"

"I care about you. Fuck knows I do. But this prick is taking away all our time together, right?"

"Who? Luke?" She asks, appalled.

"Yeah, him. The piece of shit. He's stealin' you away from me. Can't you see it? Not to mention he's a criminal."

She stands up off the bench and pokes him in the chest, hard, right in his baby blue polo shirt, with the collar upturned all the way. "He's a criminal? You're one to fucking talk. You beat the shit out of people for a living." He stands up, too, a cheeky smile gracing his features. "True, babe. You know a hypocrite when you see one, don't you?"

"But I'm just telling you. He's no good. And you'll find out soon enough."

"If he's so bad, why have you been waiting so long to tell me?"

The brown haired boy shrugs his shoulders, his blue eyes looking into her brown ones. "You know what's fucking awesome, though?"

"What?"

"Spliff." He says, as he captures her hand with his.

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?"

Later at the Fitch residence.

"Mum?" Emily calls to her mother while she lays on the couch.

"Hm?" She replies.

"You ever wonder why Rob's always gone for so long? At weeks at a time like this?" She interrogates her, twirling her cigarette around in her small fingers.

"A business trip, of course." She fires back, putting on a fake smile and dusting a lampshade. Emily laughs at the absurdity of the lie her mother wants her to believe so much. "No," the twin interjects, getting up off the couch and closer to her mum, "he's on a drug binge." With that, the younger of the two of them leaves to upstairs without a word. Jenna holds her tears back until she hears the loud crack of the door being slammed. She breaks down on the living room floor; sobbing and crumbles even further more into the ground.

"How did my life get like this?" She asks herself, remembering her and Rob's wedding day, how he had denied any alcohol that was offered to him with a polite _no thank you_ and a curt smile. She could not believe what she had done to herself. Her family. Her children, especially. One of them had even been _taken away _from her.

She had been on the phone for an awfully long time that night. She knew she had to leave him. She twirled the sparkling ring on her finger over the flesh. Over and over. Deciding whether or not to listen to her conscience.

Later that night, Rob stumbles in, slamming the mostly glass door a little too hard, his heavy footsteps making thunderous noises as they clap with every step he makes. He opens up the refrigerator and grabs the gallon of orange juice and swallows every last drop. He's parched, and it burns down his throat. His beard makes him look unrecognizable, but the soul bearing grey eyes don't. He thuds up stairs, clambering into bed, smelling of sick, fags, sweat, and alcohol.

And then the phone rings again, later in the morning.

"Hello?"

"Hello, ma'am. May I speak to the house owner?" She looks upstairs, toward where their bedroom is and clutches the phone tightly to her ear, prepared for the worst.

"Yes. Yes, this is her. What can I help you with?" She listens to the man talking on the other line. Something about their home being revoked and that they've gone bankrupt. She argues with the man, telling him that there must be some kind of a mistake.

"Ma'am, you've been informed on several different occasions." The dulled voice bloke says, not showing any emotion whatsoever.

"What are you talking about? I haven't received any notifications! Nothing!"

"There's been several letters sent to your address proposing foreclosure."

"That-that's just absurd!" She screams, rifling through drawers to find any letters and then suddenly stopping when she finds several letters stamped with red ink, crying out for attention underneath the sofa cushions. She drops the phone to the ground, ready to yell but there's nothing coming out.

A few hours later, he's out of the house, all his shit thrown out on the street. She just can't believe it. Can't believe the fact that the man she loves has drug and alcohol abuse problems. She can't believe she worked her arse off to provide and love this family, just to have everything taken away from her, like it never mattered.

**A/N: Hey! I hope you enjoyed this. This kind of writing is a little bit new to me, so please review and tell me how you liked it. All mistakes are mine, and I'm sorry if there are any. Also, I'm really trying to step up and finish the next chapter for TEOC, and thanks for all the past reviews. **


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